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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29435445">From Ashes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenrevas/pseuds/Fenrevas'>Fenrevas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>From Ashes [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Complex trauma, Dissociation, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Hawke &amp; Lavellan Friendship, Hawke is not left in the Fade, Healing, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intrusive Thoughts, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Non-binary character, Psychological Horror, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:42:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,496</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29435445</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenrevas/pseuds/Fenrevas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ash Hawke is weighed down with guilt after Kirkwall. Perhaps she was only ever good at starting fires.<br/>Pushing Fenris away, Hawke looks to the Inquisition for a sense of purpose, or a way out. In order to find her way back, Hawke must first face the darkest parts of herself.</p><p>The first two chapters take place during Here Lies the Abyss and are set in the Fade. After that, the story follows Hawke to Weisshaupt, where she is surprised to be reunited with Fenris. </p><p>Ash Hawke's story is about the fire of destruction and the hope that comes after. It starts with a fall...</p><p>More tags as each Chapter is added.<br/>Please see the Notes at the beginning for content warnings.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fenris/Female Hawke, Fenris/Female Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>From Ashes [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2218242</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Into the Abyss</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Warnings for explicit suicidal thoughts which may be triggering.<br/>Eventual hopeful/happy ending, but its going to take a while to get there. </p><p>Chapter 1 will be the only Chapter which describes suicidal thoughts in-depth. Though conversations about mental health and suicide will take place throughout the fic.<br/>The overall fic is tagged under Archive Warnings for Graphic Depictions of Violence due to canon-typical violence and injury detail.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Into the Abyss.<br/>Ash Hawke's story starts with a fall.<br/>Before Hawke can face her darkest nightmares, she must first make a choice.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter 1 content warnings.<br/>- Suicidal thoughts/suicidal ideation are referenced at three separate points<br/>- Intrusive thoughts<br/>- Dissociation / de-personalisation occurs at points throughout<br/>- One minor instance of implied self harm used for grounding which is not graphic<br/>- Describing nausea and anxiety<br/>- Canon-typical violence</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Chapter 1: Into the Abyss</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>“It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly." – Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds.</em>
</p><p>Too late for regrets now. She is falling. Hawke feels a sickening, sinking feeling in her belly. All around her time appears to slow.</p><p>She makes out vague shapes in the darkness below. A yellow green glow and flash of silver remind her that she is not alone. In that moment Hawke remembers where she is. Flickers in her mind. Adamant. The Inquisitor. The Wardens corrupted. A Maker-forsaken dragon! Corypheus.</p><p>As she descends, an eternity in free-fall, Hawke lets go. She closes her eyes to the dark. This is the end, and she welcomes it.</p><p>A cool kind of peace washes over her and she releases the tension she did not realise she was holding. A tension she had been holding since Kirkwall. She breathes out and is infinitely lighter.</p><p>Her mind is as calm as a hooded hawk now, though her body continues to tumble wildly into the abyss. The thread connecting her mind and body stretches taught, bends, then snaps. She is disconnected. Free.</p><p>In the stillness of her mind, Hawke conjures an image of her love’s face and looks deep into moss green eyes. Those eyes always reminded her of a forest in sunlight. The feeling of early spring sunshine warming her skin.</p><p>She imagines the way Fenris would take her hand in his, his gentle touch on her face. Hawke holds onto a memory so real she can taste it. She reaches out, grasps at the sensation, and makes it real.</p><p>The darkness of the abyss gives way to verdant green.</p><p>She focuses on that memory. On green eyes that look into her and do not see mercenary, rogue, <em>Champion</em>. They see her, Ash Hawke.</p><p>Exposing. Unravelling. A gaze terrifying in its intimacy. She ran away afraid that he would see parts of her she was not ready to share, even with herself.</p><p>And yet, as she falls to the end, and only because this is the end, Ash finally lets herself be seen.</p><p>She falls into moss-green and smiles.  </p>
<hr/><p>Hawke’s first thought upon opening her eyes is that she appears to be standing the wrong way up. Or rather, she is the right way up and everyone and everything around her is turned <em>upside down</em>.</p><p>Hawke’s second thought is that she is <em>alive</em>. At least she thinks she must be. The pit of nausea and smell of sulphur seem real enough.</p><p>
  <em>When did I stop falling?</em>
</p><p>Disorientated as blood rushes into her face, her feet tentatively touch the underside of a rocky outcrop. She feels weightless, untethered.</p><p>Looking down - <em>or is it up?</em> - from her inverted position, Hawke searches the barren landscape for her companions. Their colours and shapes stand out stark against the stone plateau.</p><p>From her strange vantage point, she sees Dorian and Varric first. The blood-red padding of the mage’s armour stands out like a jewel and draws her eye. She watches as Varric clasps the mage’s arm, before checking his beloved crossbow for damage. Hawke knows what that means. The dwarf fussing over Bianca is usually a sign that ‘shit has gotten real bad’.</p><p>Her attention shifts towards the peculiar elven scholar, Solas, who stands some distance away. He stares, in what she assumes is an imperious fascination, at the desolate, ugly waste that surrounds them.</p><p>Stroud calls out, “Where are we?” Hawke turns her neck to look at him. The Warden’s voice wavers with uncertainty as it echoes and reverberates against the cold rock, unanswered.</p><p>
  <em>Yes, they seem very much alive at least.</em>
</p><p>She notes her observations with the cool detachment of someone who has very recently looked into the abyss and smiled as she fell.</p><p>“We were falling…If this is the afterlife, the Chantry owes me an apology. This looks nothing like the Maker’s bosom”. Hawke gives an empty laugh, but her companions are as silent as the stone.</p><p>Hawke grinds the soul of her boot into the rock face. An attempt to ground herself. A fragment of stone dislodges and falls upwards towards the floor.</p><p>“No, this is the Fade”. Solas remarks, without taking his eyes away from the green-grey swirling sky.</p><p>The Fade then. The colours far more vivid this time, and the roiling, fetid landscape the wrong shade of green. “It’s not as I remember. Last time was…. blurrier. And it didn’t smell so bad”.</p><p>The smell of the viscous air cloys her lungs, and she fights back the urge to be sick.</p><p>
  <em>Better to wait until I’m upright before I throw up.</em>
</p><p>Hawke looks to the Inquisitor. The Elven warrior seems small and far away. Hawke cannot make out her expression, uncanny from this upended position. Her usually silver-grey hair has taken on an eerie pallor. The Fade-glow of her Mark is visible even through the dense ether of the Fade, crackling with barely contained power.</p><p>Solas continues, “The Inquisitor opened a Rift. We came through…and survived”.</p><p>A resigned laugh from Varric cuts across to Hawke through the thick air and she feels a tightening in her chest.</p><p>“Thank you Chuckles for your illuminating exposition, as always.” Her old friend’s usual humour has an unfamiliar bite to it, and it makes her heart ache.</p><p>Another sudden wave of nausea hits her.</p><p>Hawke unclasps a gauntlet, slides it off and lets it fall past her face to the ground below. Looking down at her exposed arm, she notes a sickly sheen, colouring her usually copper-warm skin a haunting Fade grey.</p><p>She closes her eyes, and for a moment recalls a recent dream of moss and forest sun before she is abruptly torn back into the unreal reality of the Fade.</p><p>Dazed, she struggles to collect herself. Her thoughts fight upwards, to the light, not quite reaching the surface. A pulling cord from below urges her to sink deeper inside. She fights against the urge to let go but feels herself slipping.</p><p>“Hawke, are you with me?” Fen’revas calls. The Inquisitor’s voice rings out clear and bright. A beacon.</p><p>Fen’revas stretches her un-Marked hand upwards, towards Hawke where she stands inverted above her. She reaches out as though she could take Hawke’s hand and pull her back into reality; pull her mind back into her body.</p><p>Hawke watches, like a passenger in her body, as her own hand reaches out. She is falling again, but this time Fen’revas catches her, and Hawke’s feet touch solid ground.</p>
<hr/><p>“You alright Hawke?” She nods to Varric as she re-orientates herself. Her fingers and toes tingle with spines as the blood rushes its way back around her body. He responds with an unconvinced hum.</p><p>Hawke feels it then. Clamouring, clawing, gnawing at her insides. A familiar voice in her head. A slithering cold desolation wraps around her neck and squeezes.</p><p>All around them the haunting forms of Despair demons seep up through wet stone. The dense atmosphere hums and zaps and puckers, pulling in ghostly green Wraiths from another part of the Fade. Their group is surrounded.</p><p>Hawke instinctually moves to cover Varric as he takes aim and lets out a bolt with swift painful accuracy. He has not lost his edge it seems.</p><p>She fights a battle in her head as Despair tightens its grip. With so many demons present, the effect is amplified. And though Hawke is no mage, she is not immune to a demon’s influence here in their domain.</p><p>
  <em>You should give up.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It will be far easier if you let it end now.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why keep fighting when nothing you do matters anyway?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’ve only ever made things worse.</em>
</p><p>Hawke shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. The Despair demon’s words are an echo of her own inner voice. Is that not why she came on this suicide mission in the first place?</p><p>Helping Stroud uncover the cause of the Wardens’ madness and trailing the spread of red lyrium had seemed like a fine way to deal with her guilt. But bringing the Inquisitor here, to Adamant? That, she did not expect to return from.</p><p>Part of her wanted to die, and the other part of her didn’t care either way.</p><p>Hawke draws twin daggers and pushes both of her thumbs into the metal cross-guards. The dull ache is an anchor point.</p><p>Fen’revas lets out a rallying cry, “Everyone, stay with me!” Hawke is pulled to the present as she pushes dark thoughts to the back of her mind.</p><p>A force of habit, Hawke takes her place at Fen’revas’ back. The warrior’s poise and grace as she arcs her great sword reminds her of Fenris. Hawke gravitates to her wake, calm strength amidst chaos.</p><p>Hawke knows this dance, and as she darts and dives with her daggers in between every one of the Inquisitor’s mighty swings she feels more and more alive until her blood sings with excitement. Every slash of her blades cuts into the icy hold Despair has on her, and it feels good.</p><p>Fen’revas pauses beside her, catches her breath. Hawke realises that the two of them have cut swathes through the demons. The crossbow bolts embedded into rock and congealed in a green demonic goo are the only evidence of Varric’s part in their performance.</p><p>Hawke had forgotten about the presence of her companions, her focus narrowing during the fight to only the demons, and Fen’revas.</p><p>She looks over at the others. Stroud battles the last Despair demon as Dorian maintains a protective shield with his magic. Solas seems to be drawing on the Fade itself to power bolts of energy that he directs with his staff. As each bolt hits the demon, its ragged-grey shape fizzes and bubbles. Then it is gone. Nothing but goo like the rest.</p><p>“And here I thought we’d be getting a welcome party. Tea. Cake. That sort of thing. But no, we just had to go straight to the killing”.</p><p>Hawke hopes that she has hidden the tremor in her voice well. The demons are dead, but Despair’s grip has not left her yet.</p>
<hr/><p>Dorian sighs pointedly as he draws a healing aura over the group. “I have to say, this is proving to be one of my least pleasant visits to the Fade.”</p><p>“Oh, and what would the more pleasant visits be like? Do tell.” Hawke is wary of the mage, but right now she is glad of the distraction Dorian’s acerbic humour provides.</p><p>“Let us just say that the surrounds are usually far more luxurious, and the company far easier on the eye. No offense meant, of course.”</p><p>Hawke barks out a laugh in response then catches herself. The sound echoes and a cold shiver creeps up her neck.</p><p>Up ahead Fen’revas is tracking something. Hawke watches the Inquisitor who, with gaze lowered to the ground, picks up items and turns them in her hand. Searching for a Maker-damned way out of this place she suspects. Stroud and Varric walk ahead with her, watchful with weapons drawn.</p><p>Hawke pauses from her position at the back of the group, as a russet glint catches her eye. Here in the Fade the colour stands out vivid, more saturated than anything else in this desolate place. She turns from the others to look closer.</p><p>It is a carving in the rock-face. The Amell family crest, scored in bright blood-red. She reads the runes that have been notched into the stone below.</p><p>
  <em>Memories Etched in Stone and Blood</em>
</p><p>Hawke turns and her eyes seek out confirmation that she is not alone. That this is not a dream, and she is not about to wake.</p><p><em>Sister, </em>the stone reads.</p><p>
  <em>Oh Maker. I know you won’t ever read this, but I write this letter to you anyway. The Circle is just as awful as they say, worse even. They tell me the Harrowing is tomorrow. I wish. No. I just miss you. And Mother. I even miss the Dog, and Uncle Gamlen. Can you believe that? I have to believe that everything will be alright. But I am so scared. I love you.</em>
</p><p>Hawke is on her knees. She clutches and claws at the stone without knowing why. The constant gnawing guilt she carries grows in her chest and the knot tightens around her heart as she reads her sister’s words that have, somehow, impossibly, traversed time to this place.</p><p>The soft knocking of a wooden staff and the scuttering of shale alert her to a presence behind her. She twists on her knees and looks up at Solas.</p><p>“Is it real?”</p><p>He responds without pause, as though he was expecting her question. “Like all things in the Fade, they are both real and yet not.”</p><p>“That doesn’t make any sense. I need to know…” Hawke is frustrated and raw, grasping for meaning. She feels hot tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.<em> It has to make sense.</em></p><p>“We stand physically in the Fade. Such false dualities only limit one’s understanding.” Solas continues to look to the carved runes and does not turn to where she is knelt at his feet.</p><p>His ever-present frown grates at her more than before. Hawke says nothing and thinks only of striking that supercilious smirk from his face. Instead, she digs her fingernails into the hard, wet ground until her fingers hurt.</p><p>She wonders if he was ever this condescending to the Inquisitor.</p><p>He nods to the etched runes. “Narrow notions of time and space do not matter here. The runes reflect thoughts echoed in dreams.”</p><p>Hawke bites down on her lip until she tastes warm iron.</p><p>“Forgive the interruption. However, it appears the Inquisitor may have found something of use.” Dorian raises a brow to Hawke as he extends a hand to help her up.</p><p>Hawke brushes the shale from her knees but does not wipe the wetness from her eyes, and the water tracks a line through the sheen of dirt and dust on her face.</p>
<hr/><p>Fen’revas stands with arms crossed at the base of a towering stone staircase carved into the landscape. The warrior’s shoulder presses against the side of a large boulder and the rock drips with a substance slick and grey.</p><p>Stroud strides towards Hawke as she approaches. “Where were you? The Inquisitor has found a trail, rune markers I believe. Let us hope we can escape this way.”</p><p>She has seen him face down red Templars and lyrium behemoths, hoards of the undead, but Hawke has never seen her Warden friend so agitated. She notices the sweat on his brow, reflected green in the eerie light.</p><p>The Inquisitor unclasps her arms and pushes off from the boulder. There is a tension in her face that Hawke had not seen before.</p><p>“Solas, tell me. What is the meaning of these runes? They seem to tell truths they cannot know. They describe the last moments of those who died at the Conclave. Etched into the stone somehow. Fears of the Dreamers. Some are written in Elven, how can that be?”</p><p>“Our dreams and desires echo in the Fade, and these are the ripples, so to speak.”</p><p>“Or our<em> nightmares</em>,” Varric whispers from Hawke’s side.</p><p>Hawke wonders for a moment whether the Inquisitor ever considered punching the Elven mage. Now <em>that</em> she would like to see.</p><p>They ascend the stairs up and up towards a dark cavern. As they climb, floating islands of stone surround them, and strange objects drift past ominously. A carved Halla statue. A child’s stuffed toy scuffed and worn by love.</p><p>At one point Hawke spies an entire dinner service float by, laid out in splendour against cold rock. The absurdity is not lost on her, but then she thinks for a moment of home. Of the family dinners her mother would make, and the empty table after her mother died.</p><p>Hawke shakes her head to avoid the thoughts that would come next. She cannot let her mind take her there. Instead, she looks to the Inquisitor. Focuses on the outline of her shoulders, hunched as the elf takes each giant step; she follows her forward, a lantern in the dark.</p><p>As they reach the top of the staircase, the green vortex of the sky breach above them feels impossibly close. The air hums and snaps with electric energy and shadows of the Black City hang over them. Hawke feels the sudden urge to <em>run</em>. Everything feels too much, her skin far too tight, the voices around her too loud in her ears.</p><p>She turns away from the group and walks, back towards the staircase until she can push the toes of her boots over the edge of the upper most step. Hawke looks down, to beyond the edge of the stone plateau they had come from. All the way down, into the abyss. Down beneath the floating rocks and grey-green hue she sees a pool of endless nothingness.</p><p>
  <em>It will be far easier if you let it end now.</em>
</p><p>The words of the Despair demon echo in her head and Hawke’s body jolts back from the ledge.</p><p>She thought she would welcome it. That she would be glad to leap into the empty void of the abyss. But now, given the choice, the thought of the fall fills her with nausea. She feels repulsed by it.</p><p>The knot in her chest that has been winding tighter since they arrived in the Fade loosens the smallest amount, and she lets out a long breath.</p><p>Hawke chooses to step away from the edge.</p><p>Turning her back on the abyss, she heads towards her companions, hiding shaking hands.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Faded, Not Lost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Make haste, I will guide you. You cannot escape the Lair of the Nightmare until you overcome your darkest fears. You must regain the lost parts of yourself. Only then will you be free.”</p><p>Hawke escapes the Fade, but first she must face the darkest parts of herself.</p><p>Psychological horror and mental health themes, and a lot of spiders. See notes for chapter-specific content warnings.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warnings for this chapter:<br/>Implied suicidal thoughts.<br/>Intrusive thoughts.<br/>Dissociation/depersonalisation.<br/>Canon-typical violence.<br/>Injury detail.<br/>Implied character death (Stroud).<br/>Trypophobia/little holes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chapter 2: Faded, Not Lost<br/>
<br/>
Hawke returns to the group as the Inquisitor leads them deeper into the cave, toward a bright orb that fills the cavern ahead with light.<br/>
<br/>
As they draw closer, the light crystalises to form an outline. It morphs until it has legs and arms. Transforming from something ethereal and otherworldly to the recognisable form of a Chantry cleric.<br/>
<br/>
“Divine Justinia? I thought I saw…How can you be here?” Fen’revas recognises the shape formed by the spirit. But Hawke is not convinced.<br/>
<br/>
“I greet you, Inquisitor. Warden. And you, <em>Champion</em>,” the spirit-demon says.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke has known demons in many guises; she knows that the most insidious often wear a familiar face. The back of her neck prickles. Her ears begin to ring. In readiness of the moment the friendly façade breaks into terrifying abomination.<br/>
<br/>
“A Chantry Mother, really? Spirit or demon what are you?” Hawke bites out.<br/>
<br/>
Her hands are still shaking, the bile taste in her throat a reminder that only moments ago she had backed away from the precipice. That she had considered ending it all.<br/>
<br/>
“Not now Hawke”, Varric bumps his shoulder to her elbow.<br/>
<br/>
She brushes off the contact and continues, “How hard it is to answer a simple question? I’ll show you…I’m a human, and you are…?”<br/>
<br/>
Hawke feels as though her insides might unravel, unspool right here in front of everyone. Fen’revas looks at her. Shakes her head. Hawke clenches her jaw and forces herself to stay quiet.<br/>
<br/>
The spirit-demon carries on, “You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand alive. In the Fade, yourselves. I am here to help you.”<br/>
<br/>
The ringing in Hawke’s ears gets louder. She can see her companions’ mouths move in speech, but she cannot hear their words. Not until the spirit-demon’s voice cuts through the chaos of Hawke’s mind. Into the calm eye at the centre of the hurricane.<br/>
<br/>
“This is its domain. The demon. It is the Nightmare you forget upon waking, and the terror that lingers. That is the demon which rules over this part of the Fade.”<br/>
<br/>
The shape of the Divine transforms into a dazzling white-hot flame, and Hawke covers her eyes against the glare.<br/>
<br/>
Its disembodied voice calls out from above, “Make haste, I will guide you. You cannot escape the Lair of the Nightmare until you overcome your darkest fears. You must regain the lost parts of yourself. Only then will you be free.”</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
The words of the Divine-spirit-<em>demon</em> echo in Hawke’s mind as Fen’revas retrieves lost memories from the Conclave, guided by the glow of the spirit’s true form.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke feels a tight, sickening dread coiling the pit of her stomach as she follows, daggers drawn and ready. Her fingers twitch with the urge to stab <em>something</em>. To feel the cold, cruel certainty of the kill.<br/>
<br/>
She has lost so many parts of herself. Family. Friendship and love. A sense of purpose. Her desire to live. How is she to find the pieces again? And to find them here in this grim, hopeless, nightmare place?<br/>
<br/>
“Ah,” a creaking voice says, “We have visitors.”<br/>
<br/>
Hawke feels the vibration of the words, like rough fingernails scraping against her bones, scratching at the inside of her skull. The Nightmare’s voice fills the thick air. It <em>is</em> the Fade, and it’s in her <em>head</em>. Seized by terror’s grip, Hawke stands frozen.<br/>
<br/>
“You thought you could come here…to steal the Fear I lifted from your shoulders? You should have thanked me and taken the way out I kindly offered. No matter…have it your way.”<br/>
<br/>
Hawke looks to Fen’revas, whose eyes, vibrant, yellow green like spider venom, widen at the Nightmare’s words.<br/>
<br/>
<em>You are not the only one facing your fears Hawke, keep it together.</em><br/>
<br/>
The ground quakes as the voice grinds out, “You think that pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your Fear is me. But, you are a guest here in my home. By all means, let me show you my hospitality…”<br/>
<br/>
A hollow taunting laugh follows the words like an earthquake tremor.<br/>
<br/>
The Inquisitor draws her great sword as Dorian inscribes a glyph on the stone ahead of them, laying a paralysing trap for the approaching enemies.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke seeks out Varric with frantic eyes. She meets her friend’s gaze, and the fabric of the Fade ripples and crackles, until Wraiths surround them in a storm that buzzes with static electricity.<br/>
<br/>
Varric nods to her and raises Bianca, ready to fire. Hawke can feel the charged air between them. A strain on their once easy friendship. She blamed herself, of course. After all, she managed to push Fenris away. Why not Varric too?<br/>
<br/>
In this moment, Hawke realises that she is not the only one weighed down with guilt since Kirkwall.<br/>
<br/>
She stalks low then leaps forward to back-stab the nearest Wraith. Hawke focuses on the sensation of her daggers cutting through the demon’s pulpy flesh.<br/>
<br/>
Without taking her eyes from her mark, she calls out, “So what have you thought of the weather lately, Varric?”<br/>
<br/>
Varric does not miss a beat, and shouts a reply above the noise of battle, “Nug shit! You know how much I hate caves.”<br/>
<br/>
A crossbow bolt finishes the kill, and Hawke shakes green sludge from her blades.<br/>
<br/>
“Maker’s breath Hawke, remind me never to get on our bad side.”<br/>
<br/>
Hawke’s heart lifts with the familiarity of their game and she lets out a breathless laugh. Then the moment breaks. Her stomach drops and grief bubbles up, threatening to spill out. The empty echoes of her laughter are drowned out by steel against stone, as Fen’revas spins in a violent cyclone tearing Wraiths asunder.<br/>
<br/>
“Hawke! Help Stroud. Cover Solas! Varric, Dorian, with me.” The Inquisitor takes pause amidst felled demons to direct the battle with clear command.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke moves to Stroud’s side, but does not look him in the eye. From behind them Solas creates a vortex in the surrounding Fade, preparation for the next wave.<br/>
<br/>
Grief turns to anger and rises in her throat, as she and the Warden turn to face the oncoming demons.<br/>
<br/>
“Something troubles you Hawke.”<br/>
<br/>
“You mean other than the unending hordes of demons and the fact that we are trapped in a literal nightmare? I’d like to thank the Wardens for this delightful opportunity, perhaps you could pass on my regards once we get out of here.”<br/>
<br/>
“We can discuss this further once we return to Adamant.” Stroud raises his shield, lunging with his sword at the nearest Rage demon. Fiery lava sputters from the wound.<br/>
<br/>
“Assuming that the Wardens and their demon army didn’t destroy the Inquisition while we were gone,” Hawke snaps.<br/>
<br/>
She crouches to dodge a fireball. Leaps up with her daggers to tear through one of the demon’s molten limbs. Hot liquid fire bubbles in a pool on the ground and Hawke side-steps to avoid burning her boots.<br/>
<br/>
Shades seep up from the stone behind them and Stroud turns. Raises his shield to block. A slash of his blade and a Shade falls. An electric storm rages around them and the green sky streaks purple.<br/>
<br/>
“How dare you judge us! You tore Kirkwall apart and started the Mage Rebellion.”<br/>
<br/>
Stroud’s words ring true, and Hawke’s own inner voice echoes in her head.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Ash only ever started fires. A fitting name. Everything you touch burns.</em><br/>
<br/>
Hawke shakes off her thoughts and lets the anger rise inside her again. She throws herself towards the injured Rage demon, dealing another blow with her blades. White-hot agony lances up her forearms as droplets of lava tear holes in her skin, wounds open and unfurl like blossoming flowers that burst and bleed together.<br/>
<br/>
Biting out a yell, Hawke turns away from the heat. She did not intend for destruction to reign. She only ever tried to make her city better.<br/>
<br/>
Fighting the urge to gag at the smell of her own charred flesh, she rips through the sea of Shades until their spectral forms disappear in dust.<br/>
<br/>
The Rage demon advances. Stroud’s shield offers protection from the heat as he slashes and lunges until the molten creature cools and shatters.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke turns to Stroud and grits her teeth through sunburst pain. “To protect innocent mages, not mad-men drunk on blood magic! But you ignore when the Wardens use it for their own gain. How convenient for you. Wardens exist because of blood magic. All hypocrites. You can’t imagine a world without the Wardens, can you? Even if that’s what we need.”<br/>
<br/>
The battle is over, and Fen’revas approaches. Her stance more hunched than usual, and with the sweat on her brow, the vallaslin markings look like fresh paint. The Inquisitor speaks with a resigned sigh, “Dirthara-ma. In eal asan’sa? Banal’varemah.”<br/>
<br/>
Hawke does not understand the words but catches their meaning. She and Stroud are behaving like children, and she is letting her fear show. Hawke takes a health tonic from her belt and gulps it down to soothe the burning.<br/>
<br/>
“Come, we can argue once we leave this dark place,” Stroud offers under the reproachful gaze of the Inquisitor.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke flashes her teeth in a grin, “Oh, I intend to.”<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
They recover more of the Inquisitor’s memories, and every time a new wave of demons.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke begins to tire.<br/>
<br/>
“We must find a place to rest soon,” Fen’revas says from the front of the group. Her sword is sheathed, but her palms are raised ready, and her ears twitch at every noise.<br/>
<br/>
The sound of scuttering, scuttling feet echoes across stone. Hawke cannot make out the source. They come from every direction.<br/>
<br/>
“Gah, I hate spiders. Blasted creatures.” Dorian is at her side, his staff raised, sweat beads on his brow.<br/>
<br/>
“And I bet they hate you too Sparkler.” Varric stands next to her, ready to fire.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke laughs and twirls her daggers, “Sparkler, that’s a good one.”<br/>
<br/>
“What can I say, I am quite dazzling,” Dorian replies dryly.<br/>
<br/>
“Stand ready!” Fen’revas shouts.<br/>
<br/>
The scratching symphony of spider feet grows louder, until hundreds of tiny red eyes glare in the darkness from every direction.<br/>
<br/>
Solas walks toward the Inquisitor, bows his head, “Fearlings. There are too many.”<br/>
<br/>
Fen’revas pauses, then responds, “Alright everyone. We are going to run. Follow me. Keep close. If we are lucky, the spiders will scatter, and we can pick them off as we go. As soon as you see a defensible position – make it known.”<br/>
<br/>
“<em>If</em> we’re lucky”, Varric echoes in a whisper.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke feels the blood pounding in her head as she considers the irony of it all. She decided to live. Refused the call of the void. And yet here she is, about to die anyway. Killed by <em>spiders</em> of all things.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Maker, tell Fenris I am sorry.</em><br/>
<br/>
“Run!” The Inquisitor bellows. They race towards the bright light of the Divine. The orb guides them forward, and the sea of spiders parts, then closes in around them like falling sand.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke slashes out with her daggers, not looking at her targets as she runs. Pinprick pain runs up her legs as teeth and claws cut through the soft fabric under her armour.<br/>
<br/>
She looks for Varric. He struggles to keep pace with the group. She sheathes a dagger and grabs the fabric of his jacket. Pulls him along with her.<br/>
<br/>
Dorian and Solas repel and dispel, throwing spells that paralyse and slow to prevent the horde from overrunning them. Soon they outrun the bulk of the spiders. They now give chase from behind, and from above. Swarm along the walls. Drop from the ceiling of the cave.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke’s chest and lungs burn, acid rises in her throat. She focuses on the Inquisitor, the way the orb’s brilliant glow refracts on her armour, a false sunrise.<br/>
<br/>
The taunting voice of the Nightmare creeps up from the stone and into her, “Do you think you can outrun me? I am your every fear come to life. Or…perhaps you think it is I who should be afraid? Facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition.”<br/>
<br/>
This time, when the Nightmare laughs, Hawke feels the vibrations drag along her tired, heavy muscles. Her blood runs like icy sludge in her veins. She fights the urge to slow, and her mind whispers <em>give up, give up,</em> <em>give up</em>.<br/>
<br/>
As they run, Hawke hears the Nightmare call out to her companions one by one. She switches her mind off to it, concentrates only on moving <em>forward</em>.<br/>
<br/>
“Over there!”, Fen’revas points to the Divine. The spirit has travelled far ahead to mark their destination, leaving them in darkness.<br/>
<br/>
From this distance, Hawke can make out the alcove the spirit signals. Cut into steep cliffs on two sides, and set against a sheer drop into the abyss on the other. A defensible position, if a little unsettling.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke wills her legs to keep pushing her forward. Her grip on Varric tightens and the Nightmare’s voice resounds, “Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric. You found the red lyrium. You brought Hawke here…”<br/>
<br/>
Breathless at Hawke’s side Varric grits out, “Just keep talking, Smiley.”<br/>
<br/>
The Nightmare’s laugh reverberates through the cavern. As its last echoes disappear into the distance, Hawke realises the group has slowed to a walk. The cavern is eerily quiet. The spiders have gone.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke lets go of Varric, and folds forwards. She grasps her knees and gasps for breath.<br/>
<br/>
The ground rumbles as the Demon speaks again, “Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city.”<br/>
<br/>
<em>Everything you touch burns.</em><br/>
<br/>
Hawke grinds her teeth. She spits on the ground, acid from her lungs. “Well, that’s going to grow tiresome quickly.”<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Champion of Kirkwall</em>. How ironic. That city burned because of you.”<br/>
<br/>
Hawke shakes her head. Her mocking inner voice repeats: <em>Champion</em>.<br/>
<br/>
“I am not listening.” She closes her eyes as she pushes out the words, “There is nothing you can say that I haven’t already told myself, Demon.”<br/>
<br/>
There is a silence. Hawke hears her heartbeat thud in her chest. A metronome pulse of blood beats in her ears. In the distance she thinks she might hear someone calling out her name.<br/>
<br/>
“You set Corypheus free.”<br/>
<br/>
Hawke’s breath catches as the Nightmare speaks. The snare of Hawke’s guilt winds tighter.<br/>
<br/>
“With your blood. And your foolishness. I am indebted to you Champion, for I am the veiled hand of Corypheus himself. Because of you, He will be a living God.”<br/>
<br/>
Hawke’s world spins, though her eyes are still closed. Panic rises in her like a bird caught in trap. Desperate for breath. For escape.<br/>
<br/>
“Hawke! We need to move on, we cannot afford to rest until we reach the alcove ahead. Can you continue?” Fen’revas asks, voice laced with frustration.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke nods a response. Knows she could not speak if she tried.<br/>
<br/>
As she follows in the footsteps of the Inquisitor, Hawke focuses on keeping her panic at bay. The Demon’s low grating voice whispers in her ear; she does not hear its words.<br/>
<br/>
In her mind’s eye, Hawke pictures Fenris walking beside her. She imagines his outline, then fills in texture and colour, and life. Though his presence is a fiction, it is comfort and strength too, and she needs that now.<br/>
<br/>
As the Nightmare creeps into her mind, an insidious parasite, planting false visions of her worst nightmares come to life, Hawke breathes in the sharp scent of lyrium. Thinks of calm strength. Of Fenris ready to fight at her side. Then she turns to Varric and laughs.<br/>
<br/>
“You know, you'd think a mighty ruler of the Fade could come up with material more original than this. I eat my own fears for breakfast!”<br/>
<br/>
Her mind is already a master of conjuring dark visions and intrusive thoughts. No demon required for that.<br/>
<br/>
And yet, the seeds of fear grow in her, spurred on by the Nightmare's gluttonous excitement as it feeds.<br/>
<br/>
“Fenris is going to die. Just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about.”<br/>
<br/>
Hawke feels the bile rise in her throat as images of Fenris bloodied and dead mingle in her mind with the memory of her mother's desecrated, reanimated corpse. Lyrium scars, cut through and stitched back together. A ghost-white sheen over lifeless green eyes.<br/>
<br/>
A sickening dread slides under her skin. She thinks she might throw up. In her head repeats the refrain that has haunted her since she arrived at Skyhold.<br/>
<br/>
<em>He might already be dead.</em><br/>
<br/>
Hawke fights her fear. Holds onto her strength. Oh, she has become an expert at this. She has already faced the cold horror of her worst fears made real. And she survived.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke turns to the tactic she always uses, when those thoughts slither into her. When she feels the latching tendrils of fears created by nothing but her own mind. Hawke takes in a deep breath and lets out a hoarse scream that shakes the fabric of the Fade, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD!”<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
They reach the alcove marked by the spirit. Hawke realises it is not simply a recess cut into stone. It is a graveyard. A dozen headstones stand in two neat rows.<br/>
<br/>
Stroud is first to walk over the threshold, and as his foot crosses that unseen line, Shades rise from the dirt. One for every grave.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke is exhausted. When she fights, it is as though she is moving someone else’s arms, and legs and daggers. Her body is the puppet and she the actor behind the curtain.<br/>
<br/>
Fen’revas turns to the group once the last Shade is despatched. The Inquisitor is cradling her arm as the Mark on her hand pulses green. Her voice strained when she speaks, “Get some rest everyone. Catch your breath. Stroud and I will keep watch. Then we are getting out of here.”<br/>
<br/>
A warm breeze brushes past Hawke’s face as she turns. There has been no breath of air since they arrived in the Fade, or warmth besides the Rage demon’s fire. It lulls her, like summer sunshine on her skin.<br/>
<br/>
The warmth comes from the abyss. The breeze is its whisper.<br/>
<br/>
So close to the edge Hawke feels pulled toward it, like a gravity well.<br/>
<br/>
“I am not listening!” Hawke says under her breath, thankful that her companions are too focused on their own exhaustion to notice.<br/>
<br/>
Ignoring the whispered call, Hawke searches for a place to rest. Her muscles ache. She longs to close her eyes and sleep. Perhaps to wake up in a warm bed and realise this is all just one very awful dream.<br/>
<br/>
Choosing the headstone furthest from the ledge, Hawke settles against it. Leans her head back and closes her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
“…Became his parents. Oh, that’s just great. Hawke! What does yours say?” Varric’s voice rouses her. Hawke stirs.<br/>
<br/>
Her companions scrape dirt and debris from each headstone, reading the inscribed words aloud. Hawke turns her head and looks up at the runes on the stone behind her. A chill runs up her neck and across her scalp like spider feet.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Ash Hawke</em>, the headstone reads.<br/>
<br/>
She scrambles back on hands and knees. Her shaking hands grab at buckles. Hawke pulls out a hunting knife. The pommel is tapered to a sharp point that is not quite a blade.<br/>
<br/>
<em>What does yours say?</em><br/>
<br/>
She does not want to know. Though she can hazard a guess: <em>Destroyed everything she touched</em>.<br/>
<br/>
The whispers of her own thoughts can be erased. Washed away with every dawn. They return, of course; a constant haunting. But, for them to be engraved in stone. No matter that this is the Fade, the realm of dreams. The finality of it. Would make it real somehow. Unbearable.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke grasps the handle of the hunting knife and hacks at the headstone with the pommel. She spits out fragments of rock and thick black mud as it specks her face. Whatever words were etched there are no more.</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
“Are you alright?” Hawke asks the Inquisitor.<br/>
<br/>
The warrior leans against her great sword at the entrance to the graveyard. The blade sinks into the mud and Fen’revas grips the cross guard with both hands. Holds her weight against it like a walking staff.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke is unsure what she could offer, but she cannot ignore that the Inquisitor looks terrible. Her yellow eyes look tired, yet bright with fear. And her face is pulled taut with pain.<br/>
<br/>
“Is it your Mark? Is it worse, here in the Fade?”<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t know, maybe. Danemah. All I know is I am ready for us to get out of this cursed place. Divine Justinia, she…I believe I know the way.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes please! Maker, I feel like we’ve been here so long I’ve forgotten what sunshine looks like. And I cannot abide the thought of never tasting pancakes again.” Hawke laughs.<br/>
<br/>
Her false levity pays off when Fen’revas’ grimace softens to a tight smile.<br/>
<br/>
“Right then. Get Varric and Dorian. I’ll check that Stroud and Solas are ready. One more push and we run for the rift.”</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
“Fasta vass! That’s a big one.” Dorian draws a swirl of purple magic into his staff, and Hawke puts herself between him and the Pride demon.<br/>
<br/>
Across a stone ravine, Fen’revas and the others face a demon of their own. But Hawke agrees with Dorian. This is the bigger of the two. She hears the click of a crossbow bolt behind her as Varric prepares to fire.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Here we go again.</em><br/>
<br/>
Hawke steels her mind, prepares for the demon’s taunts. But the whispered voice in her head never comes.<br/>
<br/>
Instead, the demon speaks aloud, “You think you are important? That what you do means something? I am your Conceit, and I will be your downfall.”<br/>
<br/>
Its gaping maw opens in a wide grin. As it laughs, lightning arches across its leathery skin.<br/>
<br/>
“Not today Demon!”<br/>
<br/>
Hawke unleashes her daggers and runs toward Conceit. In one swift movement she throws her weight down and leans back. She slides on the edge of her plated armour under the demon and between its legs. As her momentum carries her forward, Hawke opens her arms wide like a bird in full flight. Daggers slash through tough hide and black blood oozes from the wounds.<br/>
<br/>
The demon screams, and the sound splits into a chorus of high-pitched cries. Lightning strikes out from the demon’s skin. The ground shakes as the creature falls forward.<br/>
<br/>
“Take that you filth!” Dorian shouts above the choir of screams.<br/>
<br/>
He repels lightning with lightning and a purple storm rages. Massive claws tear furrows in the mud as it swipes, and the demon drags its injured body toward Varric and Dorian.<br/>
<br/>
“No, you bastard!” Hawke yells.<br/>
<br/>
She climbs up and onto the body of the Pride demon. Ignores the way the storm scorches her skin where it touches her. Lightning dances off the plate of her armour. The metal glows, radiating heat inwards like a furnace.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke leaps over the spiked armour of the demon's hide as she strides up its back. She reaches its neck, and the demon turns its great head to look up at her with a dozen beady eyes. Hawke stares back.<br/>
<br/>
She kneels at its nape. This close, Conceit’s breath makes her gag. The sickening sweet smell of decaying flesh. She holds her breath as she slowly pushes a dagger into the side of the demon’s throat. Dark blood spurts out from the wound. Hawke takes her other dagger and pushes it down and through its temple, the full force of her weight behind it. Its skull breaks and caves in with a dull crack.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke feels a strange satisfaction. The release of something that had been festering inside of her. She pulls the daggers from the demon and wipes the blades against its hide.<br/>
<br/>
When she looks up, her grin wide, Dorian and Varric are staring at her. Mouths agape.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke laughs, “Now that, was fun. Just don’t ask me to clean this up.”<br/>
<br/>
When her feet touch the floor, she stumbles. Her vision blurs and her head feels light. “Perhaps...I need to sit down.”<br/>
<br/>
Varric clasps her arm with his, “Nice work Hawke, you just about saved our asses.”<br/>
<br/>
“Indeed,” Dorian runs a hand through his hair. “It was rather melodramatic, though I can’t say I’m ungrateful. I am far too pretty to perish in this wretched place.”<br/>
<br/>
“Come on!” Stroud calls over.<br/>
<br/>
She has been avoiding the Warden since their argument. It is unfair perhaps, but she sees her own guilt reflected in his gaze.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke and Varric walk arm in arm as they re-join the group. Her every muscle shakes and shivers. Fatigue is catching up with her. Varric keeps her upright, as she places one heavy leg in front of the other.<br/>
<br/>
“Not far now, keep going,” Fen’revas rasps.</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
They reach a part of the Fade that is bathed in cool green light. The air cracks with energy. Hawke hears a low constant hum, like the sound of the rift at Adamant.<br/>
<br/>
“The rift! We’re almost there!” Hawke is overcome with a desperate joy. To see sunlight again, and feel soft grass run through her fingers. To taste clear spring water on her tongue; hear the crinkle of leaves under foot.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke tastes salt. Her dry, cracked lips sting. She realises she is crying.<br/>
<br/>
“Great, Hawke. Just tempt the Nightmare to <em>try</em> and stop you,” Varric whispers so that only she can hear.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke laughs through her tears, “We are almost there Varric, what is the first thing you want to do, when you get back?”<br/>
<br/>
“Maker, Hawke. Don’t say that. Haven’t you heard of foreshadowing?”<br/>
<br/>
As Varric speaks, Hawke jumps back. Startled, as her foot plunges into a pool of tepid, viscous liquid.<br/>
<br/>
“Eugh. What the…”<br/>
<br/>
Every muscle in Hawke’s body turns tense. She grasps at the edges of understanding. The sight before her so unreal. So <em>wrong</em>, that her exhausted mind cannot comprehend it.<br/>
<br/>
Ahead lies the rift. Their way out. Looming before it, almost blotting out the rift’s green glow is a monstrous creature. So massive that Hawke must crane her neck to see its full scale. The creature’s bulbous body towers over long spider-legs as it draws nearer. Every step further eclipses the light of the rift.<br/>
<br/>
“Hawke. Are you…seeing what I am seeing?” Varric asks.<br/>
<br/>
“If you are seeing a terrifyingly creepy spider bigger than a Hightown mansion? Then yes.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh shit.”<br/>
<br/>
The creature’s hide is pock-marked with craters and holes. Like fetid flesh crawling with maggots, swarms of giant spiders scuttle out of every crevice. Hawke takes a trembling hand and unhooks her arm from Varric’s. She draws her daggers. It takes all her concentration to not drop them.<br/>
<br/>
Focusing on her fluttering heartbeat, the beating pulse she feels in her throat, Hawke closes her eyes. The Fade gives way to warm dappled sunlight through forest leaves. She looks down at the moss-green carpet of the forest and breathes in deep. When she opens her eyes, her grip on her daggers is firm. She does not shake.<br/>
<br/>
The rest of the fight is a blur. A performance, and Hawke a spectator. From behind a veil she watches another Hawke move her arms, and legs and daggers. Until an unearthly roar rips through the Fade. The sound pulls her through the veil and back into herself.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke looks up. She stands in the shadow cast by the leviathan shape of the Nightmare. The creature’s giant spider legs lift then fall like knives as it takes each lumbering step. The grey-green sky opens, and bright red blood gushes forth like heavy rain.<br/>
<br/>
“We must distract the creature,” Stroud says.<br/>
<br/>
“This mess, Corypheus…this is my responsibility. You go, I will cover you.” The words leave Hawke’s mouth unbidden. She is numb. A small voice, shut away in the distance of her mind, wonders if this moment…If this is what it has all been leading to.<br/>
<br/>
“Hawke no, you were right. The Grey Wardens caused this. A Warden must stay…to make it right.”<br/>
<br/>
Hawke hears her own voice speak. She feels nothing, as the words come out. “Stroud no, you have a purpose. You are needed. To re-build the Wardens. I…let me do this.” She turns to the Inquisitor, “Tell Fenris…”<br/>
<br/>
“No!” Fen’revas cuts her off, whispers, “Stroud.”<br/>
<br/>
He nods, and raises his shield, “Inquisitor, it has been an honour.” He turns to Hawke, “Maker be with you, friend.”<br/>
<br/>
Hawke cannot speak. Feelings and thoughts rush back into her, a dam broken, and suddenly she is so afraid.<br/>
<br/>
Fen’revas takes her hand in a tight grip, and Hawke follows as the Inquisitor pulls her toward the light. She hears a hoarse cry as they leap into the bright green iris of the rift.<br/>
<br/>
Hawke squeezes her eyes shut and she is falling.<br/>
<br/>
When she opens them again, it is to the hazy red skies of dawn’s first light.</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
As the rift closes and one more wound into the world is sealed, a torn page of yellowed parchment floats on whispered breeze. The page spirals, slows, then falls still.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Fears of the Dreamers</em>, the parchment reads in scrawled black-red ink. It is a moment inscribed, that has travelled through time and space, to this place.<br/>
<br/>
The words sink into the black mud of the Fade, forever unread.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Sometimes at night, on the edge of sleep when his mind is weak, he lets himself think of her. Brave, and fearless. Reckless. Hawke. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>But now it is day, and Fenris closes off that part of himself. There is only the hunt. With every slaver laid dead at his feet his heart numbs. His world narrows. He wages a battle of attrition. One he can only win.</em><br/>
<br/>
<em> Today has been a victory. The trail that traffics life and flesh from Denerim to the Imperial Highway is now lined with the blood of tyrants. A crushing blow to the lucrative Tevinter slave trade indeed. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>This caravan marks the end of this particular route. So close to Perivantium, there is likely to be traffic on the road. Best remain wary. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>Fenris turns to survey his work. The clearing by the road is quiet. So quiet. The cries of the people he freed, some elves, some human, echo in his ears. He did not ask where they would go. They ran from him in fear. No wonder, who would not flee from a wolf with fangs bared and bloody? </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>He stoops to pick through the clothing of the nearest body, soiled in blood and sweat. A mage. Fenris finds a few coins and a health tonic, both of which he pockets. Then moves on to the next. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>Once all the bodies have been picked clean, Fenris drags them to the foot of the caravan. Its door swings on its hinge, still in motion from the moment it was violently torn open. He places the bodies of the slavers inside one by one. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>When the job is done, a feeling washes over him. It is an emptiness, a want of home. He misses..."Venhedis!" Fenris shouts and slams the door of the caravan shut. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>The force pulls the creaking hinges loose, and metal crashes against metal. The sound pierces the clearing and Fenris lifts his gaze to scan the area. So much for stealth. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>A figure approaches from the sparse shrubbery that surrounds the blood-soaked clearing. It is a slim man. An elf. The figure is cloaked and hooded in grey, but Fenris can tell by his gait. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>Tensing his muscles, Fenris bends slowly to a crouch. Without letting the man out of his sight, he reaches for the sword of mercy that lays on the burnt grass at his feet. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>"Friend", the man speaks. His voice is deep and gravelled. Yet, there is a softness to it that gives Fenris pause. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>"You may speak, but come no further. You were not with the caravan. So, I ask, who are you? What do you want of me? I see no friend here." </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>Fenris slowly rises. He pulls the great sword up with him but leaves the blade’s edge at rest on the ground. He notes grey whisps of hair, peeking from under the elf's hood. A face wrinkled and wisened with age. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>"A letter for you. I can tell you no more, other than the message I have been told to deliver: the letter is from a friend. He begs you, please read it. He says that you will want to know she is alive." </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>Hawke. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>Fenris strides forward, dragging the blade behind him. It scores the earth. The steel tears a path in chalk and dust. The old man recoils. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>"He...he told me that he hopes I ‘finish the job with my heart still in my chest'. I…asked him to pay me extra for that." </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>Fenris’ eyes catch the movement of shaking hands, partially obscured by the man’s cloak. His gaze softens and he speaks, "I will not harm you. I assure you these men and women deserved their fate. You have nothing to fear from me…If you are, as you say, a friend." </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>The man stands taller as he hears the words. He pulls out a letter. Sealed in red wax. Pressed into the seal are the crude lines of an eye with a sword run through its middle. Under the seal, press-printed in red ink is one word. A word Fenris recognises but cannot place: Skyhold.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>“Dirthara-ma. In eal asan’sa? Banal’varemah.” [May you learn. Are you eleven? I am about to exile you]<br/>“Danemah”. [About to break, about to shatter, about to split]</p><p>Credit to Project Elvhen by Fenxshiral for the translation.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Forged Anew</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Following the events at Adamant, Ash Hawke remembers what it means to have a friend.<br/>Her experience in the Fade has changed her, and she is finally ready to face some uncomfortable truths.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning for this Chapter:<br/>- There are two conversations which discuss implied suicide in the context of recovery<br/>- No explicit descriptions of suicidal thoughts in this chapter<br/>- Brief description of intrusive negative thoughts<br/>- Alcohol/scene where characters are drunk</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Chapter 3: Forged Anew</strong>
</p><p>“<em>Remember the fire. You must pass through it alone to be forged anew</em>.” – Canticle of Exaltations<br/><br/>Hawke looks up from her position at the base of the rectory tower. Her eyes follow green twisting vines that press winding trails into stone. Scaffolding lines the walls. The fresh-cut squares of recent repairs stand out against crumbling, weathered stone.<br/><br/>She stretches her arms over her head, until her fingers touch the first wide wooden scaffolding beam. Craning her neck, she spies the dip of the tower’s sloping roof. A stark silhouette against the declining sun.</p><p>Her fingers press into the wood, she bends her legs. Her momentum coils like a spring, and she pushes off the ground with the toes of her boots. With a groan, she hauls her weight upwards, to sit astride the beam. A pause. To watch her hot breath form a whisp in the afternoon air, crisp with cold.<br/><br/>Hawke seeks a secluded place. Away from the bustle. The noise and frenetic energy of Skyhold. The tangled, sticky, spiders-web of other people’s petty feelings and preoccupations.<br/><br/>As she continues to climb, a chilled breeze whips past. Hawke sacrifices balance for a moment, to wipe the hair out of her mouth. A glance to the courtyard below.<br/><br/>Far beneath her, people go about their daily lives. From Hawke’s vantage point they look so small, and so filled with purpose. Each tiny figure, following the path laid out before them. All in aid of a common goal. The Inquisition.<br/><br/>When Hawke reaches the roof of the rectory, she follows its knife-edge to a wide lip, overhanging the uppermost window of the tower. Rough-cut wood swirls with knots under her hands. Hawke scrapes her palms against the grain as she settles. She kicks her feet over the ledge to swing them back and forth; shakes the tension from her body like a dog shakes water from its hide.<br/><br/>Leaning her head back, she closes her eyes and settles her breathing. Focuses on the steady <em>in</em> and <em>out</em>. The sound of the whistling wind and the soft caw of ravens her only company.<br/><br/>A quiet, lilting voice from behind startles her, and she jolts forward.<br/><br/>“I did not expect to find you out here, Champion.”<br/><br/>Regaining her balance, Hawke turns to the figure now crouched beside her. Flame red hair under a grey hood, soft eyes that flash with something darker.<br/><br/>“Leliana. I can’t say I expected to find you here either, or anyone in fact. Also, next time, maybe a little warning before you sneak up on someone. I’m going to take a guess and say the Inquisitor wouldn’t be pleased if I ended up falling to a tragic early death. Murdered by her own spymaster no less.”<br/><br/>Leliana shakes her head, “Of course. I did not mean to startle you.” Her lips quirk in a wry half smile as she speaks, “I can assure you, if <em>that</em> were my intention, the Inquisitor would never know.”<br/><br/>She follows with a chuckle, a high-pitched melody. The sound is a chill that crawls up Hawke’s spine, and her stomach twists, like the drag of a turning dagger in her guts. Leliana may laugh sweetly, but she was most definitely <em>not</em> joking. This is the Divine’s Left Hand, the sharpest edge of the Chantry’s blade, after all.<br/><br/>“What are you really doing out here Leliana? Are you here to tell me ‘I told you so’? Because if that’s the case, you’ve come all this way for nothing. <em>Believe me</em>, my mind is already laying out an elaborate banquet, a veritable feast in fact, of all of the <em>very bad things</em> I have done.”<br/><br/>Idly picking at the wood under her, Hawke pulls splinters. Twists them with her fingers until they crumble. She lets the dust fall to the busy courtyard below.<br/><br/>Leliana laughs again, soft and under her breath like the notes of a song, “Nothing of the sort. I come out here…to think, sometimes.”<br/><br/>She turns her face away, deeper into shadow. There is a wistful melancholy to her words, “You are a harsh judge of your own actions. Perhaps…we have all done things we regret. One lesson I have learned to heed above all others, is that it is what we choose to do now that matters most. None of us are beyond redemption. <em>That</em>, is what I believe.”<br/><br/>________________________________________<br/><br/>Pushing the last piece of cheese around her plate, Hawke looks to Fen’revas. Brilliant yellow-green eyes, the colour of Fade rifts, fix her in a thoughtful gaze. Fen’revas tilts her head to the side, her ears twitch at their ends. Hawke feels she is being sized-up, studied, like a prized Mabari at a hunter’s faire.<br/><br/>She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Her face heats. She looks to the open door of the balcony, suddenly thankful for the grand view of snow-capped mountains. Crystal skies. The cold breath of mountain air that fills her lungs. Vast, endless, terrifying. Like the possibilities that lie before her now.<br/><br/>The sharp clang of cutlery pulls Hawke’s attention back to the room. When Hawke agreed to share a meal in the Inquisitor’s private chambers, she had not expected to walk into a job interview. She would have worn a different shirt if that were the case.<br/><br/>Hawke knows well the look of someone about to ask her a favour. Whether or not coin is involved, the <em>look</em>, is always the same.<br/><br/>Fen’revas pushes her plate across the table, folds her arms, and leans against the cushioned backrest of the sofa. Her voice, a soft rasp, barely above a whisper, finally breaks the uncomfortable silence that the pair have held throughout the entirety of their meal.<br/><br/>“You could stay here, you know. The Inquisition could use a seasoned operative like yourself. You are intelligent and resourceful. You have experience of leadership. You are skilled in battle. There is a place for you here. And…I like having you around.”<br/><br/>The words wash over Hawke like water droplets on wax. She has heard them before, many times over. Spoken by those who wish their <em>Champion</em> to solve their problems.<br/><br/>Sometimes they thanked her after the job was done. With coin, and smiling tears. Or with their last cherished family heirloom.<br/><br/>But the faces and names that turn Hawke's stomach, haunt her in the space between waking and sleep, belong to the people whose Champion <em>failed</em> them - often with spectacular aplomb.<br/><br/>So, instead of the words, Hawke focuses on the almost unnoticeable rattle to the timbre of the Inquisitor’s speech. The way that Fen’revas’ voice wavers at the end. Hawke has witnessed the warrior’s clear command in the midst of battle. The confidence with which the elf directs and rallies her team.<br/><br/>Now, in the quiet of this room, alone with Hawke, Fen’revas is nervous.<br/><br/>Hawke pauses as she considers her next move. There is a reason a month has passed since they escaped the Fade, and she has still not asked. Her heart flutters in her throat as she forms the question, “Why me?”<br/><br/>Fen’revas’ lip curls up to form a tight, uneven smile, showing teeth on one side, “Is it too much of a cliché to say that you’re not like most other shems I’ve met?”<br/><br/>Hawke cannot help it. She belts out a laugh, loud and long. Fen’revas joins her as they cough and splutter beside each other on the sofa. The tension that has been building throughout their tortuous meal breaks like a sea wave.<br/><br/>Hawke’s stomach aches and she fights to regain control, wipes away stray tears. She cannot remember the last time she let go like this. Taking in deep breaths, she grips the side of the sofa, schools her features.<br/><br/>“I am almost afraid to ask, whatever do you mean?” Hawke winks at the Inquisitor, who smiles and shakes her head at the exaggerated gesture.<br/><br/>As Fen’revas’ laughter fades, her fingers tap a distracting rhythm against her knee, “Some of it is hard to describe. You don’t have that look in your eyes. When most other humans look at me… that combination of pity and wonder. You know? And…you are a human, of reputation. One…who is openly involved with an elf. That is, unusual from what I have seen.”<br/><br/>That, was unexpected.<br/><br/>The knot in Hawke’s chest tightens. Images planted by the Nightmare worm into her mind’s eye, to eat at her resolve. The sharp teeth of countless banal fears needle at her, puncture a hole through that tenuous barrier.<br/><br/>Intrusive thoughts wind their way in, like insects, to whisper in her ear.<br/><br/><em>He might already be dead. </em><br/><br/><em>It is your fault. </em><br/><br/><em>Everything you touch…</em><br/><br/>She digs her fingernails into her palm, tries to ground herself in the here and now.<br/><br/>Even Varric has not made mention of Fenris since they escaped the Fade. Sensing, perhaps, that his friend is not yet ready, or willing to go <em>there</em>.<br/><br/>When she faced her worst fears in the Nightmare’s domain, she carried her love’s strength with her like a candle in the dark.<br/><br/>But he is not hers, any longer.<br/><br/>The memory of his touch is a flicker inside her heart. Hawke is afraid, that if she looks too hard, that fragile flame will go out. And she will be truly alone.<br/><br/>In the strange tension of this room, under Fen’revas’ thoughtful acid-green stare, and nervous questioning, Hawke reaches out, and touches the flame.<br/><br/>Forcing a smile, she speaks with false buoyancy, “Oh. Well, Fenris and I, we ah. We aren’t exactly involved…anymore. I ended things, rather permanently before I came to Skyhold. I couldn’t risk that he would follow me here. I suppose I thought it was the only way.”<br/><br/>Fen’revas cocks her head again. Lets out a low hum under her breath. Her voice no longer wavers when she speaks, “You mean you left him because you thought you had to struggle alone.”<br/><br/>“No!” Hawke responds without thinking. The word comes straight from her gut, wrenched out of the middle of her.<br/><br/>But then Hawke remembers. Cold nights alone. How long had she been running away? To protect Fenris from the burden of her pain. He had already suffered; he fought so hard to find the lost pieces of himself. Hawke was afraid that somehow, she would pass her pain to him. That the darkness in her would bring back the darkness in him.<br/><br/>“I…Fuck,” Hawke cannot find the words. She grasps for her thoughts in an unlit room, at the edges of a truth she has known all along but could not see. She looks to Fen’revas, whose brow is furrowed. The elf continues to tap against her knee, but it is not a hurried beat. They sit in silence. Hawke focuses her gaze on a crumb of bread that found its way from her plate and on to the table.<br/><br/>“Sorry, Fen, you are…probably completely right. This is just…I am not used to talking about this sort of thing.” Hawke laughs under her breath and tears fall freely down her cheeks.<br/><br/>A strong, calloused hand grasps hers. Hawke looks up through her tears. Fen’revas passes her a tissue, a small green square of cut cloth.<br/><br/>“Its ‘Revas. I prefer ‘Revas to Fen. That is what I asked my Clan to call me.”<br/><br/>Hawke’s breathing calms. Her chest rises and falls in an even rhythm. She sniffs, and smiles, thankful for the change in conversation topic, “Oh. ‘Revas. That is better actually, less uh…confusing. Is it just me or are there a lot of elves called Fen-something...”<br/><br/>The words trail off at the end, and Hawke presses the tissue to her face, supressing a raw sob. She gulps air, and chokes on her breath, hides her face in her hands.<br/><br/>“You should reach out to him. To Fenris. Let him know that you’re alive and give him closure if nothing else.” Revas’ voice is calm, and steady. Soothing Hawke, as much as the words themselves are challenging her.<br/><br/>Hawke clenches her jaw, tries to contain her tears. The heavy knot in her chest rises into her throat and tightens like a thick chord around her neck.<br/><br/>She bites out her words, “If he wants to hear from me that is. He’s probably half-way to Tevinter by now ripping out hearts and cursing my name. Maker I have made a wyvern-shit heap of this. I guess I didn’t count on coming back…I thought that ending things with Fenris would protect him.”<br/><br/>The Inquisitor replies without pause, “From the red lyrium or from the pain of losing you?”<br/><br/>“What?” Hawke blinks through tears. Her mind clouded by rising panic, she is not sure when they started talking about <em>red lyrium</em>.<br/><br/>‘Revas pushes forward, gives no quarter, no time, for the weight of the words to sink in. “That’s what you told me, when you arrived at Skyhold. That Fenris would give his life for yours, and that you could not risk him. You were talking about the red lyrium, I assumed.”<br/><br/>Hawke thinks for a moment. She recalls that conversation as though it were a dream. She did say that, didn’t she?<br/><br/>On her back foot, caught off guard by softly spoken words and this, sudden charge, Hawke yields. “Yes, and no…I suppose. I have lost so much, and I could not bear the thought that Fenris might die following me while I fix my own mess. That it would be my fault. Maker, I shouldn’t be telling you all of this.”<br/><br/><em>Another person to burden with my problems.</em><br/><br/>And still the advance continues. ‘Revas is relentless, unwavering, though her voice remains calm as summer breeze, “And yet you did not care if you died, yourself. Or consider the impact it would have. Did you think to ask Fenris, whether he wanted a chance to help you?”<br/><br/>The Inquisitor’s words hang in the air, the echo that follows a thunderclap. Hawke’s stomach twists, her face heats, and phantom pain shoots into her fingertips. She clenches her fists; a bubble of rage rises up in her like hot lava.<br/><br/>Hawke flashes her teeth, “Why are you doing this? Oh Inquisitor. Is this how you question your subjects?”<br/><br/>‘Revas does not react. Instead, she slowly stands. Collects their plates and moves them to a table beside the door. It is only when she turns back to face Hawke, that she speaks, “I consider you a friend, Hawke. Just please write to Fenris. I know that Varric has contacts in Tevinter. I am sure he can send someone.”<br/><br/>Hawke nods. Blows her nose into the tissue.<br/><br/>“I am sorry ‘Revas. I am a mess. The actual definition of a disaster in fact. I bet if you looked up ‘disaster’ in one of the dusty scrolls in that library of yours, you know what it’d say? <em>Ash Hawke</em>.”<br/><br/>‘Revas sits back down beside Hawke. Shuffles closer until their knees are touching. Holds out her un-Marked hand, and Hawke takes it. A strange warmth builds in Hawke’s chest.<br/><br/>Fen’revas looks down at their joined hands as she speaks, “I know what it is like to feel responsible…”<br/><br/>“…And not know what the hell you are doing?” Hawke finishes.<br/><br/>“Yes, exactly.”<br/><br/>Hawke releases her hand and stretches, cracks her knuckles. Rolls her shoulders back. ‘Revas winces at the snapping and popping of her joints.<br/><br/>“Earlier, when I asked, ‘why me?’ I actually meant why did you save me, not Stroud?”<br/><br/>Fen’revas freezes, like a deer in the sights of a wolf. “Ah. I was wondering when someone was going to ask me that.”<br/><br/>As they sit together in the Inquisitor’s chambers, Hawke notices with detached amusement that Fen’revas has picked a hole in the front of the sofa. The wanton destruction of innocent upholstery, a habit they share it seems.<br/><br/>‘Revas clasps her fingers together, gesticulates as she speaks. Green Fade-Mark pulsing with a cool, eerie light. Hawke focuses on the movement of her hands as they twine and untwine.<br/><br/>“To be perfectly honest Hawke, I feel like I know you. I know how much Varric cares for you, and he is my friend. I read <em>Tale of the Champion</em>.”<br/><br/>Hawke rolls her eyes but bites her tongue. Her heart beats, a rabbit pulse in her throat. She waits for the Inquisitor to tell her that she regrets the decision. For her to say that it should have been Hawke, and not Stroud, left behind in the Fade.<br/><br/>When Fen’revas speaks, it is with a quiet resolve. Grounding, like soft, turned earth. “That may not be the most tactical decision I have made. Perhaps it is one that will come back to bite me. But it is not a decision I regret.”<br/><br/>A stillness follows. The sun is low in the sky, and the glow of a purple sunset fills the room. Hawke shivers. Fen’revas gets up, pulls the door to the balcony closed, and the light of the sunset is shut out.<br/><br/>“Banal nadas. Nothing is inevitable. Perhaps it is over between you and Fenris. Perhaps it cannot be mended. But you both deserve to know and to have the opportunity to decide a different fate.”<br/><br/>Hawke cannot explain why, but in that moment Fen’revas’ words give her hope. If hope is the name, of that tiny spark in her chest. The name of the flame in her, that only flickered in the darkness when she touched it. It did not go out, but instead dared to burn brighter.<br/><br/>Her heart lifts, a flutter in her chest. Like butterfly wings against her breastbone.<br/><br/>“I see it now.” Hawke puts her feet up onto the sofa and ‘Revas gives her an incredulous look.<br/><br/>“I see why they looked at you and said, ‘<em>Hey! Let’s pick her</em> - <em>that Elven woman with the massive sword - to lead us. Of course!</em>’. The Inquisition, which is - correct me if I am wrong here - an institution of religious <em>fanatics</em>, who once upon a time led a massacre of the Elven people. Yes! They turn around and name you - a Dalish elf - their leader.”<br/><br/>Hawke laughs, and her voice trails to an empty echo.<br/><br/>‘Revas’ eyes are wide. The smallest hint of a crooked grin plays at the corner of the Inquisitor’s mouth.<br/><br/>Hawke crosses her legs under her, pushes her palms into her knees, and leans forward.<br/><br/>“It is not because of your Mark. You are thoughtful, inspiring. A true champion… Thank you. For this… I feel like I should be paying you for your time or something…”<br/><br/>“Hawke, one more thing.”<br/><br/>‘Revas continues with quiet confidence, “In my Clan, I was not known as a woman, or a man. Not all of us chose to be seen that way. I do not choose to be seen that way.”<br/><br/>At her friend’s words, the warmth spreads inside Hawke’s chest alongside a sharp, bright pang of something she cannot place. A smile radiates from her, it is not forced this time, “I am glad you told me. The others, Varric and Cassandra, have you told them? They seem to refer to you as ‘she’ and I assumed…”<br/><br/>Fen’revas cuts her off, “Not yet, it hasn’t exactly come up. And there have been more pressing matters… Time travel, dragons, stopping the end of the world. You know, those sort of things. Amongst all of that…it didn’t feel important…to say, ‘by the way can you stop calling me <em>sh</em>e all of the time’. I suppose I wasn’t sure how they would respond either. Though it’s not something I’ve intentionally kept hidden.”<br/><br/>Hawke looks into ‘Revas’ yellow-green eyes. Bright with unshed tears. A small smile on their face.<br/><br/>“Try, telling them, Varric and Cassandra I mean. You might be surprised.”<br/><br/>“Thank you, Hawke.”<br/><br/>Hawke staggers to her feet. Her legs feel like bags of sand. She shakes, jumps on the spot and opens her arms wide. Fen’revas laughs at her.<br/><br/>Holding out a tissue, Hawke looks at ‘Revas, “I’m glad we can have these heart to hearts. I am feeling all warm and tingly inside. Seriously though, it is good to have a friend. I’m afraid I pushed all of mine away.”<br/><br/>‘Revas nods, curls their lip in that small half-smile again, “Then consider what you can do to change that. No one can live a life alone.”<br/><br/>Hawke is beginning to realise the truth of that statement. She thinks for a moment of Fenris. She hopes he isn’t alone.<br/><br/>Focusing on her friend, Hawke aches with recognition, “And what about you? I imagine it could be lonely. When people only see the symbol you represent, and not the person underneath.”<br/><br/>'Revas looks away, towards the setting sun. A sliver of evening light shines through the window.<br/><br/>“They call me Herald of Andraste. Me, a Dalish elf. Even my closest advisors. Every time someone I consider a friend says ‘Your Worship’ I feel the distance between us grow. Maybe that is why I value your company so. You have only ever called me by my name. It helps, to not feel so alone.”<br/><br/>________________________________________<br/><br/>In the week that follows, Hawke lets herself remember what it means to have a friend.<br/><br/>Every morning, she trains with ‘Revas, Cassandra and The Iron Bull. Fighting through the burn in her muscles, Hawke meets every blow with gritted teeth. Determined to match their warrior strength with her own. She welcomes the hits that land. They only make her stronger.<br/><br/>She spends each long afternoon in the Inquisitor’s chambers, icing bruises, sharing meals, planning next steps. Something of her old self returns, ignites within.<br/><br/>Tomorrow, Hawke leaves for Weisshaupt. She has not considered <em>what then</em>. There is no plan that follows. But the certainty of her next step keeps her from falling. Keeps her fire from dying out.<br/><br/>There is something she must do first, however.<br/><br/>Since returning from Adamant, Hawke has been avoiding Varric.<br/><br/>Back in Kirkwall, their friendship had been so <em>easy</em>. Full of teasing repartee. Her old friend, always ready with sardonic wit, a game of chance. Hijinks around Hightown. <br/><br/>Varric was always there, to distract her from heartache after bloody heartache with tall tales and a mug of ale. Anything to help her avoid her problems.<br/><br/>In a way, they always avoided one another.<br/><br/>This new, strange, tension between them though plays on Hawke’s mind, a wicked game. It would be easier, perhaps, to spin a story. To avoid their shared uneasy truth.<br/><br/>Hawke cannot avoid it any longer.<br/><br/>A single door separates her from Varric. Taking in a deep breath, she throws all her weight forward in a shoulder-barge. The heavy door swings open wildly, wood thuds against stone, and Hawke lurches into the throne room.<br/><br/>“Now that, Hawke, was an entrance,” Varric says dryly as she approaches.<br/><br/>He is stood at his writing desk, looking at her with a tired expression. The barest hint of amusement in his eyes. The cackled laughter of passing nobles reverberates around them, amplified by the tall ceiling of the hall.<br/><br/>Varric gestures to a door behind him, and Hawke follows. The bustle of Skyhold is shut out, but the silence that follows is a void. A dark abyss of unspoken words between them.<br/><br/>Hawke’s eyes search the room for a talking point. Anything to break the awkward silence.<br/><br/>Much of the room is filled by a large square table, and atop the table a deck of cards splayed out.<br/><br/>“Playing Wicked Grace by yourself, Varric? I would have thought you could find <em>someone</em> to keep you company.”<br/><br/>“Ha ha, very funny. I was hoping you would join me for a game, in fact.”<br/><br/>Hawke takes a seat at the table, Varric sits across from her and he shuffles the deck.<br/><br/>“Varric…” she starts as he deals. There is so much she wants to say. She wants to bridge the impasse between them but does not know where to begin.<br/><br/>Instead, she picks up her hand - two songs, a snake, and a knight – “You better not be hiding an Angel up your sleeve. If I catch you cheating, you owe me a drink. Or eight, if I remember correctly.”<br/><br/>Varric looks up from his cards, pressing his hand against his chest in feigned astonishment. “Me cheating? You know that would never happen.”<br/><br/>Hawke plays the game. Her stomach tight with unease. She forces a smile as she takes out her hunting knife, notches a record of her winning hand into the table.<br/><br/>Varric looks up from his cards and pauses. It is his turn, “The Inquisitor tells me you’re going to Weisshaupt? I get that you fancy a change in scenery, but it doesn’t exactly strike me as a prime vacation spot?”<br/><br/>Hawke shuffles her hand in absent, practiced movements. “Oh, didn’t Josephine say? The Hunterhorns are meant to be lovely this time of year.”<br/><br/>A dry laugh, and Varric deals, “You bet. Seriously Hawke, ask Lavellan to send an escort. Those Wardens are grown men and women, I doubt they need you to babysit.”<br/><br/>She keeps her gaze focused on her cards. Two serpents and a song, she will have to bluff.<br/><br/>“You know…someone needs to escort the Wardens, and it’s not like Stroud is around to do it. This is my responsibility Varric.”<br/><br/>They play in silence. Hawke wins another two hands. She suspects the dwarf is letting her win.<br/><br/>“And what of your Tevinter elf? There’s a story there, I know it. I’ve heard some interesting rumours,” Varric says with nonchalance.<br/><br/>“I…don’t want to talk about it. Look, I win!” Hawke slams her cards down on the table, her chair scrapes against the stone floor as she leans forward. “Hah! Four knights!”<br/><br/>Hawke cuts the table with her blade to record her hand, then takes the deck to deal. Varric uncorks a dark brown bottle. A sharp acrid smell fills the room and Hawke gags, then takes the bottle from Varric.<br/><br/>Conversation flows as they play and drink. They talk about everything and nothing. Dancing around the edges. It is easier, to play the game. To avoid that dark expanse of truth.<br/><br/>Hawke draws the Angel of Death.<br/><br/>“I forfeit, you win!” She pushes her cards to Varric and he nods. At some point during their game, coin had become involved. Varric pulls the pile of winnings towards him.<br/><br/>Hawke takes another swig of dwarven ale and coughs. Her head swims and her tongue burns with a numb tingle. “I know you feel it. The guilt. Like a demon sitting on your chest. I feel it too.”<br/><br/>Her words are in free-fall, loosened by the liquor. Hawke listens as her mouth moves and her voice comes out. “The red lyrium. It wasn’t your fault Varric. But I get it. I feel responsible too. For everything that went wrong in Kirkwall. Not seeing how far Meredith had gone, or Anders. For not saving…For making a shit hot mess of everything basically.”<br/><br/>Though her vision blurs at its edges, she holds Varric in her gaze. He shifts in his seat. <em>His eyes look so tired.</em><br/><br/>“Shit Hawke. I’ve had too much to drink to have this conversation.”<br/><br/>“No, my good friend, my oldest and shortest friend,” Hawke slurs as she speaks. “I am going to tell you the truth, and you are going to listen.”<br/><br/>She rolls the now empty bottle under her hand, over the bumps and notches of the table.<br/><br/>“Did you ever think, that maybe we did our best, with the shit hand we were dealt? I’m not saying I don’t have regrets. Far from it - I am so <em>filled up</em> with regret - I just, I need to tell myself that. In order to live with it. I think you need to hear that too.”<br/><br/>“Hawke…” Varric cautions.<br/><br/>Hawke, heedless, wades through the dark between them, “You didn’t make me come here Varric. I heard what the Nightmare said. I came because it was me! My fault! If it wasn’t for me Coryphe-nus would still be asleep in that Blighted cage, and none of this would have happened!”<br/><br/>Varric stands from his chair, catches the bottle before it rolls onto the floor.<br/><br/>“Blazes, you want to make this a competition now? Whatever happened to kicking back a few drinks, losing some coin, and laughing at the expense of some grousing noble? Just like old times.”<br/><br/>Hawke sobers. She is so tired, and her head is going to hurt like the void in the morning, “Varric. I need to ask you a favour.”<br/><br/>Varric has his back to her. He places the empty bottle of dwarven ale on a shelf, beside a dozen other empty bottles. “Anything Hawke.”<br/><br/>“I need you to send a letter to Fenris.”<br/><br/>________________________________________<br/><br/>By the time Hawke returns to her room, the haze of pre-dawn light is already peeking in pink and grey over the mountains.</p><p>Soon, she will meet the Wardens. Stable hands will already be readying their horses. It won’t be long until Skyhold’s lower keep is a bustling hub of activity, in preparation for the journey ahead.<br/><br/>Despite Varric’s persuasive efforts - which had included the offer to pay her back the money she lost in their game of Wicked Grace - she refused to dictate the letter.<br/><br/><em>Just let him know I am alive. I don’t expect him to follow. I don’t expect anything. </em><br/><br/>Varric had laughed at her then. Muttered under his breath, something about a <em>tame elf</em> and <em>walking through fire</em>, before taking a pen and pot of ink from a draw. Shaking his head, he had begun to write.<br/><br/>Only once the letter was sealed in hot, red wax, did Hawke leave. Warmly embracing her friend. Expressing the words she could not say.<br/><br/></p>
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